


Safehouse IV

by TheFierceBeast, VioletSmith



Series: Safehouse [4]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angel Castiel (Supernatural), Candles, Cockblock Dean Winchester, Confessions, Confident Castiel, Crowley is a Little Shit, Crowley talks dirty, Dirty Talk, Exhibitionism, Finger Sucking, Hand & Finger Kink, Implied Crowley/Dean Winchester, M/M, Metaphysical Sex, POV Castiel, Phone Sex, Size Queen Crowley, Smug Crowley, Soul Bond, Voice Kink, Wax Play, crowstiel, look at their fucking love connection, masochist crowley, open request for more Crowley voice kink and dirty talk fic please, petulent revenge wank
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-01
Updated: 2017-04-01
Packaged: 2018-10-13 18:09:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,157
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10519074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheFierceBeast/pseuds/TheFierceBeast, https://archiveofourown.org/users/VioletSmith/pseuds/VioletSmith
Summary: Damn right, Crowley's written the list of Things he'd Like to Do. But when he's interrupted by the Winchesters during Item 16 (phone sex) he comes up with a very direct way of letting them know that he and Castiel are now in a relationship of sorts.AKA, Sam and Dean find out about Cas and Crowley's extracurricular activities.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Smaychel wrote Castiel. TheFierceBeast wrote Crowley. We wanted to do some phone sex and things took their own course, as they tend to do with these two.

"Hello, angel." Crowley's familiar rumble resonates down the phone connection. It's as immediate yet intangible as the true connection that binds them - strong again, after Castiel's last visit to Crowley's safehouse - yet not quite as... _itchy_. "Are you missing me?"  
"Crowley," Castiel replies. He feels himself sink into the name, as if it were an incantation. "Are you in need of assistance?" He doesn't sound particularly urgent, but then he rarely does.  
The answering chuckle is rich and low, but has that certain bubble of mischief too that Castiel is coming to recognise. "You _could_ put it like that, yes. Where are you?"  
Castiel glances around the cave, from the far rock walls that no human would be able to perceive from here in this darkness to his own feet, submerged in grey seawater. "Oregon," he says. "And rather busy."  
"Oh? No five minutes spare for a chat, then?" That oh-so-casual tone: he could just be bored, or there could be another apocalypse brewing.  
"I can spare as many minutes as you require," he settles on, not wanting to risk missing any potentially vital information. "What's the problem?"  
"The problem is, love, that I've done my homework and written that list you asked me for, but you're not here to... _mark_ it." The shadowy space around him illuminates, just for a moment as Castiel feels a keen twinge, a vibration of the airy thread that links them that Crowley has now learned how to manipulate.  
Somewhere to Castiel's left a sea lion barks in annoyance. Wild animals tend to be neutral to his presence, they don't startle as they would for humans. Perhaps something primitive in them senses they have nothing to fear. But the demon's voice, or perhaps the sliver of his presence that can be felt through the thread, has it wary. "This is what you called to discuss?" he asks. No judgement; merely seeking clarification. Knowing Crowley this could be merely a distraction, to throw Castiel off balance before revealing some other purpose for the communication.  
"It's a matter of vital importance, pet." The voice on the other end of the connection drops lower. Castiel closes his eyes for a second. Imagines smoke. The water swirls around his ankles. From states away, he hears the tiniest catch of breath, and the air between them shimmers, tense.  
"Alright," Castiel allows. He supposes the selkie will wait. And, in truth, he is curious as to the list's contents. "But I cannot come to you just now."  
"Shame." Contrary to his statement, Crowley doesn't sound disappointed at all. "We'll just have to skip straight to item sixteen. Are you alone?"  
Castiel glances again at the sea lion. Decides that probably doesn't count. "Yes. I'm alone. Why?"  
Another little intake of breath; a gentle, insistent tug at Castiel's grace. He narrows his eyes. Crowley says, "Item the first. Do you remember a charming young gent named Angel, angel?"  
  
Of course Castiel remembers. His memory is generally faultless, and that particular instance has branded itself onto his consciousness. It revisits him in quiet moments, sets his grace stirring in ways he's sure Crowley can feel through the bond between them. Like now. "Yes, Crowley. I remember him." Castiel does not tell Crowley, but he visits Angel from time to time. Invisibly. Just to check on him, make sure he is safe and well.  
"Do you recall how I put my mouth on him? How I used my tongue?" Crowley's voice is fluent and rough at once; the nap of velvet stroked back and forth.  
Castiel closes the vessel's eyes. It is entirely unnecessary - he can still see through other eyes. "Yes. He seemed to respond enthusiastically."  
"Do you think you would respond so enthusiastically, darling?" From the other end of the line there is a soft creaking, as of someone shifting on a piece of upholstered furniture.  
The thought of it floods Castiel, through the icy coldness of the water and the dank, salty air of the cave, and he imagines it. Crowley's mouth on him. On his skin, the sensitive places of his vessel that Crowley knows so intimately. Even in his imagination, it is sinful. "That's on your list?" he asks, and there is no reason why his voice should break as it does.  
Miles away, Crowley's breath hitches: Castiel feels it too, shivering through him like storm-static. "Cas...  I want to taste every inch of that vessel of yours... Explore you with my lips. Know the noises you make when my tongue is inside you, when I take you into my mouth. I want to show you why being grounded in one of these things can be _so_ rewarding..."  
Castiel makes an involuntary noise. Something inhuman, barely audible. The sea lion startles and whines, flops itself into the water, and is gone. "Why?" he asks, his mouth gone unexpectedly dry. "Why would you want that?" Crowley's mouth is an obscenity. A _blasphemy_. Castiel imagines the damp, clever heat of it on his body, imagines allowing himself to feel that, allowing himself to let the numbness fade and push his grace close to the skin, the nerves, feeling every molecule of Crowley that touches him.  
"Because I want to know you. Completely. In the Biblical sense." His voice has texture; Castiel can almost feel it, like a caress. "And otherwise. I want to give you earthly pleasures, for you to immerse your every sense in them. Art and music and food and literature. Sex."  
  
Crowley, Castiel is beginning to learn, is a connoisseur of pleasure. Especially pleasures of the flesh. Castiel has observed humanity for millenia, but he has never understood until now how powerful a motivation the pursuit of such pleasure can be. "You please me," he says, the words murmured quiet into the slightly damp phone. "You always please me."  
The fragile thread between them thrills, an insubstantial, enormous thing, invisible and necessary as oxygen. Castiel is filled with a rush of feeling, noisy and messy and confused: gratitude and hope and devotion. And that honey-rough voice that only ever whispers half the story purrs in his ear, "Tell me how I please you, kitten: I do so want to be good."  
Castiel can't help smiling. "Is that also on your list?" There are not many people in existence who would consider Crowley _good_. But his genuine desire to please Castiel floods the link between them. It's impossible to doubt.  
"To be good? Absolutely not. To be good _for you_ ... Darling, there's nothing I aspire to more. And I promise you, I can be _very good indeed_."  
"I believe you," Castiel says, without hesitation. There's a chill wind, and the water covering his feet is icy. It isn't nearly as pleasant as Crowley's bath. Castiel clings to the warmth of Crowley, a warmth that he can still feel even from this distance.  
"If you were here right now, angel, I'd show you just how good." Another little catch of breath, and the thread between them zings, like a tiny electric current passing through wires.  
Castiel leans back against the rock, the selkie forgotten. He can feel the dampness seeping through his clothes. The silver quiver of connection between him and the traces of grace he left the last time he was inside Crowley is so taut it seems to pierce Castiel like a needle. "How would you show me?" he demands.  
"Mmmm... What would you like?" It doesn't sound like a question. It's softly-worded, as if Crowley is pondering, as if he's deciding upon a gift for a lover. Perhaps, in a way, he is. "You like to watch, don't you? I'd let you watch me now."  
 "Yes," Castiel whispers, and he's cradling the phone against his ear, now, as if it holds something precious. "I like to watch. I like to see you. All of you. I like to see into you." Crowley's breath catches audibly. "What are you doing, now?" Castiel asks. "What would I see?"  
There's a shifting creak again, a subtle change in tone as if Crowley is moving his phone to his other hand, perhaps, or putting it down on something. "Even after all that time down below, I still think flames are one of the most beautiful things I've ever beheld. Perhaps _because_ of all that time..." A ragged inhale, exhale like a sigh. "I used to think them _the_ most beautiful, until I saw you. They remind me of you. Glorious light, giving life. Or death. Mmm." Crowley hums a little moan. "I have a candle here. Lit. Shall I describe it?"  
Castiel is rapt. Barely aware, any more, of the cave around him. Crowley is a life-line. "Yes. Tell me, I want to hear it."  
Crowley's voice is slow and sweet as syrup. "The wax at the base is cool. Smooth. Warming to my touch. Thick. I can just wrap my hand around it. Shall I go on?"  
Castiel takes a lungful of air he doesn't need, just to feel it burn ice cold in his chest. "Yes," he growls. "Don't stop."  
"I have it in my right hand. Gripped. Firm. At the base. I'm running two fingers of my left hand up the length of it. Index and middle finger. It gets hotter towards the end. The wick, lit. The glare of it, the dance, is dazzling. Such a little bright thing-ah," he breaks off, words swallowed in a sharp inhale.  
"Crowley!" Castiel exclaims, concern pooling around him like an aura. He can picture it so clearly - the candle, phallic, burning; Crowley's big hands, his thick fingers too close to the flame.  
His breath sounds quick, across the span of distance. His voice still silky, hypnotic. "I'm running my fingers through the flame, angel. Just the tips. I can feel it flutter. Kissing them. The heat. So lovely, how it parts around me. Swallows me up. It reminds me of you, Cas. So bright, beautiful. Giving me such pleasure."  
Castiel wants to tell him not to hurt himself. And wants to demand he hurt himself again. How can these two desires coexist within him? How can he want to protect this demon and cause him pain? Perhaps it has something to do with how Crowley craves pain, how he adores it. The way he goes limp in Castiel's arms when Castiel harms him, overwhelmed and pliant, his eyes glassy and his mouth slack.  
From across the miles a little cry sounds. The tiniest echo of the bliss Castiel knows he can inflict on this demon. Then Crowley's voice is back. Rougher. More laboured. "It's such a small scrap, though. Yellow. It can't hold a candle to you, darling." His low chuckle is warm as flames. "You so blue and white, blinding. So pure, so _big_..." Castiel's hand tightens around his cellphone at Crowley's groan. "I'm tipping it, just so. The wax is pooling at the lip. Swelling. Can you picture it, Cas? It's so close to spilling, any moment, it-" the moan that follows is utterly wanton.  
Castiel can't hold in his response to Crowley's pained cry. His grace surges, and beyond the cave's mouth lightning flashes onto the sea. "You like that I'm bigger than you. You keep mentioning it." Truthfully, in their true forms Castiel is so much bigger that it amazes him, every time, that Crowley is able to take even part of Castiel inside himself.  
"We all have our personal proclivities, sweetheart." Crowley's voice is breathless. "What, I wonder, are yours, Cassie?"  
It's something Castiel has also wondered. He knows he is drawn to Crowley's voluntary suffering; how willingly, even gleefully he endures it. "Hurt yourself again," he says, "and find out." He's a breath away from giving up his current mission and flying to Crowley.  
" _Cas._.." The tone of Crowley's voice, coupled with the spike of his pleasure at Castiel's words, is a beautiful thing. There's a lull, and then another peak, even stronger than the last. Crowley hisses in a sharp breath. "When the wax sets, cracks away, it leaves such pretty pink tracks. I wish you could see, angel."  
"I want to see," Castiel sighs. "Where are you? Let me-" he's cut off by the unfamiliar beeping of the call waiting tone. Taking the phone from his ear, he frowns at the screen. This has always been a call he must instantly answer. He brings the phone back to his ear. It is so damp, now, that it is possibly only Castiel's grace that keeps it working. "Dean is trying to call me," he confesses, apologetically. The beeping does not go away.  
"Off you trot, then, Snowy." Crowley's voice is smooth as ever, not even the slightest trace of frustration or annoyance. "Don't keep TinTin waiting." But the singing thread between them silences, stills abruptly, like someone has pressed their finger to a vibrating harp string.  
"Crowley-" Castiel begins, but what can he say? Leaving Dean's calls or prayers unanswered is something he hates, something that sits all wrong on his shoulders. Like his vessel does, at times. Times when he feels too huge to be contained by it. "I'll speak to you soon," he promises, and ends the connection.  
  
When he arrives, slipping through time and dimension with a flurry of wings, to the place that the Winchesters have dubbed 'the Map room', Castiel is greeted with a familiar sight.  
"Hey, man." Sam looks up from his laptop. "Thanks for coming."  
"The wanderer returns." Dean flashes him a grin from the other side of the big table.  
Castiel doesn't smile. He's fairly sure they don't expect him to. "You said it was important. Of course I came."  
"Of course he came!" Dean says. His tone speaks less of taking Castiel for granted than of trust in his reliability. Even so, it is for some reason mildly irritating. "Where were you?" Dean asks. Oblivious.  
Castiel thinks of where Crowley is, and where Castiel is not, and he thinks of the thin line of connection still quivering between them like a tuning fork resonating on a frequency too high for Sam and Dean to comprehend. Something they would see if they knew how to look. And he wonders if Crowley's associates can see it. Surely they must, surely Crowley must reek of angel. Any ally of Hell must instantly be aware of it, the taint of Castiel's grace on him. Castiel wonders if it causes Crowley problems. If it would cause him problems if this were that obvious to the Winchesters.  
"Oregon," he says. "Tracking a selkie."  
"Cool." Dean's eyebrows raise, his grin cocking up at one corner.

Across the table, Sam sighs and shakes his head. "That's mermaids, dude."  
"What?! I can't appreciate lore now?"  
"Sure. You appreciate away." Sam looks back at Castiel, a quiet little smile on his face. "Yeah, so, ah... We've been looking into any ways we have of locating Kelly Klein, now that Dagon's apparently looking out for her future demon nephew. We just wanted to touch base before we tried anything too heavy."  
"Check that you've not picked up any leads before we potentially land ourselves a Prince of Hell on our tails." Dean clarifies.  
Castiel's mouth tightens. "I have no new information." He steps closer, glances at the screen of Sam's laptop. "What are your plans?"  
"So, see here, I've been cross-referencing astrological charts with planetary alignment to work out the best time for us to set off a spell we found in some of Bobby's reference notes that'll allow us to-"  
-the gauzy thread wound around Castiel's grace shivers. Tugs taut. Castiel falters, has to ask Sam to repeat himself. He's aware of the strange look he's given in response, and can only ignore it - the way he's trying to ignore the heat seeping through the connection between him and Crowley. He shakes his head, as if trying to shake off a small insect. It's almost impossible to follow what Sam is saying.  
"Cas... are you ok? You look a little, ah, distracted." Sam's brows draw together in an attitude of concern, or perhaps just confusion.  
This feeling... it's not unlike when Crowley lies with one of his consorts, the second-hand echoes of pleasure, like ripples crossing to the far shore of a lake. Except, it's entirely unlike that. It's focused. And building. "I'm fine," Castiel insists, perhaps a little too forcefully. He sees Sam and Dean exchange glances - that unspoken language they seem to share. "Could you repeat what you were just saying, Sam?" But then another wave of it hits him - pleasurable, intense. He gasps audibly.  
"Cas?" That particular tone Dean has: wary, too used to the worst. Castiel can't reassure him. The feelings are an onslaught, sensation and emotion entwined, wrapping him up. He thinks of Crowley, playing with fire. If he concentrates, filters out the background noise of Sam and Dean's concern, Castiel can pick out individual threads of Crowley. His lust is loudest, hottest. But beneath that is affection, smugness, guilt, insecurity, neediness, impatience. He's alone, Castiel is fairly sure. Alone and pleasuring himself, transmitting his pleasure through the silver thread that runs between them. It's obscene. Exhibitionist, in the most intimate of ways. Castiel realises he has sunk to his knees on the floor.  
He vaguely registers Dean's voice. The sudden touch of physical hands is a shock that jolts him, pulled firmly in two directions at once. "Cas! Stay with us man - what's happening? You in pain? Talk to me."  
"Crowley," Castiel gasps, without thinking. He doesn't know if he's calling out to his lover or attempting to answer Dean's question. The invisible thread pulses like an artery. Crowley's pleasure is building. It feels more real than anything in this room.  
"That son of a bitch." Dean mutters. His voice and his anger both feel remote, inconsequential. "What's he doing to you, Cas? _Cas?_ " Castiel hears him curse. Moving around. "See how that fucker likes his ass summoning right into a trap and filling full of rocksalt."  
"Dean, I'm not sure that's a good idea." Sam's voice. _No. Not a good idea. Crowley doesn't want to be disturbed right now. Or does he?__ Castiel feels awash with fire: now he knows. Crowley is thinking of him, focusing on him, purposefully sharing this desire with him.  
"No," Castiel says, and it is hard to concentrate on words when all he wants is to lose himself in the decadence of Crowley's sexuality. "It's nothing bad. Just a brief distraction." Castiel's vessel is responding, his penis becoming erect. Above them, the lights flicker.  
"What, run that by me again - 'a brief distraction'? What does that mean, 'a brief distraction'?"  
As if in answer, the ecstasy flares: saturated colour that Castiel can almost taste. It's a hue he recognises: Crowley is close to climax and inflicting pain upon himself, giving his pleasure response to Castiel. And Castiel is on his hands and knees now. The connection between himself and Crowley has been forced so wide open it feels like it's gaping, like Castiel could reach a hand through it and touch Crowley directly. He can feel the ghost of a hand on a penis that is not his own. The purr of Crowley's voice is just beyond his hearing. He had no idea that this was even possible - he wonders when the idea occurred to Crowley. If it is a new thing, born of the frustration of their earlier conversation being cut short, or if he's been planning it since Castiel first mentioned that he could feel it when Crowley is intimate with his lovers. Castiel wonders if they could do this when they are together in person - open the link between them this wide and let the euphoria echo and rebound infinitely.  
"What does it mean, Cas? What's going on?" Dean is saying somewhere in another dimension. He doesn't catch Sam's answer - his voice is softer, less angry - and when Dean says, "Fine. But this is _not_ over." It's accompanied by the slam of a door closing and Castiel feels a sudden absence of presence that renders Crowley all the more immediate. Alone, yet never less alone. Castiel lowers his head between his forearms, forehead almost touching the floor. Relief stirring into the maelstrom of arousal, need, adoration that's threatening to sweep him away, he exhales grace into the link, sends it flooding to Crowley across all the physical distance between them. Feels Crowley's response as soon as it hits - pain and glory, blinded and overwhelmed. Castiel cries out as Crowley orgasms. He can feel it, translated and shared, this second-hand euphoria more intense than any direct touch. He shudders through it, straining towards glimpses of Crowley - every sense, every facet - that he can't be sure are telepathy or memories. Calm warms him. Spreading from the inside out.  
  
He lies on the floor, shudders periodically wracking his body like sobs. His trousers are damp inside, and he realises his vessel must have reached climax when Crowley did. It's an uncomfortable sensation, but somehow he can't bring himself to move to alleviate it. He feels... drained. It's strangely comforting. Then his vessel is tensing again at a sudden strident trill. But it's only the ringtone of his cell-phone. He sluggishly brings it to his ear without even glancing at the screen. "Hello?" he mumbles, curling up into a tighter ball on the hard floor, wrapping invisible wings around himself like the arms of a lover.  
"Hello, sweetheart." Crowley's voice, warm and satisfied. "I was just thinking about you."  
There is nobody to see Castiel smile, quiet and small in the otherwise empty room. "Yes. So much was quite evident." It's warm in the transparent embrace of his wings. Castiel settles into it, allows himself this brief moment of respite. "I will have to explain this to Dean and Sam."  
"Oops. My bad." Crowley sounds utterly unrepentant. Castiel should probably be angry with him, but the comfortable swell of amusement and possessiveness lulls him too much for irritation. "Is our dirty little secret out of the bag now? I do hope you excused yourself before things became awkward."  
Castiel doesn't have much understanding of awkwardness. It gets him in trouble, occasionally, when he's unable to follow human social cues and niceties. "I believe they were concerned that you were harming me," he says. "We may need to reassure them."  
The noise Crowley makes might best be described as a giggle. "I swear, I'd give my favourite Tintoretto to have seen Squirrel's face." His voice slinks lower. "Or yours, for that matter. Did you enjoy it, angel?"  
Guiltily, Castiel casts his awareness out beyond the bubble of himself and Crowley. He can sense Dean nearby, and wants to go to him - to reassure him. "I enjoyed it," he tells Crowley. "I had no idea it was possible to do what you did."  
"Oh, my. Did we break new ground?" Even without seeing his face, or feeling the connection between them still buzzing, alive, it's clear he's incredibly pleased with himself. "I hadn't a clue, either. I just suspected. And, well, call me curious..." He pauses. Continues in that rich, satisfied drawl. "I'm keen to repeat the experiment at your future convenience. You know- for science."  
Castiel's mouth twitches. "For science? I suppose I have no choice but to agree." He can sense Dean's growing impatience. Can hear footsteps muffled in the distance. "I should go," he says, wistfully.  
"I wish you were here." Crowley says, suddenly. Then, almost in the same breath, "I don't suppose there's any bribe I can offer you to record Squirrel's reaction when he realises?" The link between them is quieter now, but still humming softly. It feels natural, ever present and involuntary as a mortal's breath. Easy to ignore, until it disappears. Crowley toys with it almost constantly now: a pacifying habit, like twirling hair.  
Castiel tries to soothe him through the fragile thread. Touches it, the way he would like to touch Crowley. "You don't mind them knowing?"  
"That I can blow your mind from 200K away? Why ever would I be modest about that?" Crowley gives another low chuckle. Even without their binding thread, the hint of nervousness is evident.  
"Perhaps you should be here, in person." Humans, Castiel has learned, tend to respond better to physical presence. And despite all Dean's bluster, he _likes_ Crowley - although Castiel knows he thinks he shouldn't.  
"You _think?_ " Crowley sounds halfway between amused and dubious. "Of course. I'm sure that'll defuse the situation no end. I'll be right there."  
"Good," Castiel says, relieved. "I would feel better having you here." He doesn't want to inadvertently find himself speaking for Crowley, saying things he wouldn't like said. Castiel is aware that he himself has far too few boundaries when it comes to Dean Winchester.  
"Pleased to hear it," comes a familiar voice from behind him.  
The bunker is hidden. Warded. Crowley shouldn't be able to get in. But here he is. When Castiel turns, Crowley tips him a slanted smile, his gaze sweeping him from head to toe.  Not sexual. Something else. "So, which way to the firing squad?"  
Castiel stands. "How did you get in here?" It isn't what he wants to say. In fact he's not sure he wants to say anything - interaction with Crowley feels as if it should be beyond human language. He wants to be liquid, to pour himself over and through Crowley until there are no barriers to understanding between them, and all speech is superfluous. His grace surges towards the demon like a wild tide he can barely hold back - touches him, the very edges of him, as if he had reached out a finger to one of Crowley's.  
Crowley inclines his head, ever so slightly, pushing his hands deeper into his overcoat pockets. "It's harder than you think to keep me out when I really want to get in. And, those boys really should spruce up their warding. It's not only me with a rudimentary grasp of counter-magic." He stands, stiffly, on the threshold of the room. But his aura swims around him, like clouds, reaching fluidly out to Castiel.  
"I'll make sure they do." Even after all that's happened, Castiel still feels a sense of responsibility towards the Winchesters. They've become his family. For the first time he feels nervous of their reaction to his relationship with Crowley, and approaches the doorway hesitantly.  
Crowley doesn't turn. Keeps his eyes on Castiel's face as he reaches back over his shoulder and raps his knuckles lightly, casually against the door. "Knock, knock."  
There's an immediate scuffle from the next room, and when Dean wrenches the door open, narrow-eyed and radiating impatience already, Crowley is already standing across the room, behind him.  
"Dean." Castiel does not experience awkwardness in the same way humans do, he has learned. But he is still reticent. The uneasy truce between them all has been hard won, and he doesn't want to upset the delicate balance they've achieved lately. Still. There is no alternative. "We need to talk. Sam too."  
"Did I hear Crowley?" Castiel nods, indicating behind him and when Dean turns, Crowley gives him an arch little wave. "What the hell is he doing here?"  
"I was invited." Crowley says, smoothly.  
"This concerns him," Castiel insists, already preempting Dean's protest. "He should be here."  
"Sam." Dean calls. He turns to Crowley, points. "You're on a warning." And Crowley holds his hands up, eyebrows raised and lips quirked in what looks for all the world like amusement. It isn't. Not entirely, at least: Castiel can feel the undertow of his anxiety. When Sam enters the room, Dean crosses his arms, raises his chin. Says to Castiel, "What's going on?"  
Castiel wants to be beside Crowley. To take his hand, maybe. A visible show of support, of loyalty. He remains motionless. "Crowley and I have become involved," he says, without preamble. "Intimately."  
_"Whoah"_. Sam says. Then, "Was _not_ expecting that." He looks anxiously at Dean. Castiel follows his gaze.

Dean's jaw is clenched very tightly. He opens his mouth, pauses. Smiles, too wide and too bright. Then he laughs. "Run that by me one more time, Cas? See, for a moment I thought you meant intimately, like... Mommy and daddy intimately." His expression hardens again, very slightly. " _Involved_ how? We talkin' buddy-cop involved or back-door to Purgatory involved, here?"  
Castiel frowns in confusion. Obviously he has not made himself clear. "Romantically involved," he clarifies. "And sexually." He glances at Crowley for confirmation.  
Crowley raises his eyebrows innocently. His nod is very enthusiastic. "Oh, absolutely. In every position."  
"I will _kill_ you!" Crowley is next to Castiel before Dean even has time to hurl himself across the room. Sam only just manages to restrain him.  
"Dean, you did ask." Sam says - reasonably enough, although even he sounds less than overjoyed at the development. He's answered with only an incoherent growl of frustration.  
"Dean," Castiel growls, stepping forward to put himself between him and Crowley. "Leave him alone." He's not entirely sure why Dean is so angry. He knows Dean mistrusts Crowley - but can he not trust Castiel?  
" _Me_ leave _him_ alone?" Dean shoots Castiel a purely incredulous look. "This isn't - one, happening and two, right. In any way. What's he done to you, man? This isn't _you_. Wait-" his brows draw down in a perplexed frown. "Are you guys punking me? Oh, shit, you _are. Tell_ me this is a prank?"  
"Dean..." Sam says gently. "I don't think this is a prank."  
Castiel and Dean both look at Crowley. He shakes his head, cheerfully.  
Castiel steps forward and grasps Dean by the wrist. Feels how sturdy he is, how alive. This is a man Castiel has known from the inside out, one he has followed away from Heaven, given up his former life for, called friend and brother. "Dean," he says again, quieter. Pleading. "I know you don't like this. But you can't change it, and you hurt me by trying."  
"Cas, man... You can't seriously expect me to... I mean..." He breaks off, evidently distressed. _"Crowley?_ "  
"I'm right here, you know." Crowley's tone sounds, finally, a little irritated. "And quite honestly, I'm a little offended that you find the fact that Cassie has excellent taste so difficult to process."  
"I've seen your soul, Dean Winchester," Castiel says. "I know you wouldn't object to this purely on the basis of gender."  
Dean has always assumed Castiel to be romantically interested in human women, just as he has always assumed Castiel to be male based on his vessel. It's frustrating, but up until now Castiel has never had cause to argue over it. There were always bigger issues for them to deal with. For the first time since he opened the door, Dean's expression softens. "No, man - no! Of course not. It's just..." The corners of his mouth turn down. He glances at Sam, at the walls, anywhere but the other two occupants of the room. " _Crowley?_    Cas, he's just... _Pervy._ " he finishes, lamely.  
Castiel tilts his head, his brow furrowing. "Pervy?" He hears Sam explode into what sounds like a fit of embarrassed coughing.  
"You should know, cupcake." Crowley's voice is smooth as cream.  
Dean makes an interesting noise. "You can - you just shut up now."  
"Not what you said in Dakota," Crowley murmurs, loud enough for just Dean to hear - and Castiel, of course. Dean glances, wild-eyed at Sam. Glares back at Crowley.  
"Are you worried about what Crowley and I do when we have sex?" Castiel asks, bluntly, hoping to clarify things for himself.  
At his side he hears Crowley fail to suppress a snigger. The anxiety permeating his essence has calmed to a shallow ebb now, which is reassuring. His evident amusement at Dean's discomfort less so. "I'm worried that you and - him - do the - thing - at all."  
"You mean sex?" Castiel notices that Sam has turned slightly red in the face from all the coughing. "Would you like a glass of water, Sam?" he asks.  
"No, I'm - actually, yeah, a glass of water would be great." Sam casts a look at his brother, "I'll be right back."  
"Sam, don't you dare leave me with-" The door closes as Dean trails off.  
Crowley beams. "Well, I have to say, this is going really well. Far better than I thought it would."  
"I really hate you." Dean says. He sounds rather weary, but the sentiment thankfully does not seem entirely genuine.  
"Hate you too, darling." Crowley replies.  
Castiel knows this to be a lie. He's not sure why Crowley and Dean must constantly deny their affection for each other. He knows humans are often uncomfortable around previous sexual partners, so perhaps that's a factor. And, of course, Dean will never truly accept a demon as someone to be trusted, as a friend. Even with Castiel, it's clear that he dislikes any reminder of his inhumanity.  
"This is nice." Crowley's smoky drawl has recovered all of its customary smugness as he looks between Castiel and Dean. "Not awkward in the slightest. I'm so glad we've got all of this out into the open. Cuddle and a cuppa?"  
"Bite me." It seems almost a reflexive response from Dean.  
"Only if the angel can watch."  
It's fascinating to Castiel, the way Dean's cheeks flame at that suggestion. Not for the first time, he tries to picture them together - Dean and Crowley, in bed, knowing each other carnally. Would Crowley respond to Dean the way he does to Castiel? No, surely there must be differences, as there had been with the young man, Angel. He reaches out with his grace, tastes the emotions and thoughts Dean is projecting. Embarrassment. Possessiveness. Defence. Anger. _Jealousy_. "I understand that this situation is unconventional," Castiel reassures him. "An angel and a demon. Almost unheard of."  
"OK, that's it. You," he turns to Crowley. "Out." His gaze flicks to Cas. "We need to have a talk. And it's gonna require beer."  
More beer. Castiel persists, but has yet to develop a taste for it. Still, it seems to be important to Dean to consume it occasionally for social purposes. "Yes, Dean," he replies dutifully. "As you like."  
Beside him, Crowley conspicuously rolls his eyes. Castiel can almost hear him: _yes Dean, anything you say, Dean_.  
"Are you still here?" Dean says.  
Castiel twitches as he feels a touch - for a moment thinks it's the touch of Crowley's hand - then realises it's Crowley's essence reaching tentatively for him, down the line that binds them. "Would you like some alone time with Captain Caveman?"  
Castiel touches Crowley in return. Gently, this time. The connection between them is still sensitive; post-coital. "I think it's best," he says, quietly. "I'll come to you when I'm done."  
Crowley nods, once. Eyes both of them lazily in turn. "Laters, you crazy kids." And then he's gone. His unseen, parting touch lingers in Castiel's consciousness. A contrast to his casual physical presentation: concerned, possessive, affectionate.  
Dean let's out a long exhale and turns on his heel. "I need a drink."  
  
They find Sam again in the kitchen. He looks up almost guiltily from the book he's reading and the stool he's sitting on scrapes loudly against the floor as he hurries to stand.  
"Crowley?"  
"He left."  
"You OK?"  
"Will be."  
"Want some space?"  
"Yeah."  
Castiel stands statue-still in the doorway. "Thank you, Sam." He hates this. Hates the tension between himself and Dean, which is only partly to do with Crowley. Partly something he can't name, something complicated that's been growing for a while and is gradually becoming impossible to ignore.  
Sam clears his throat. Says, "No problem, Cas." But he's looking at his brother, as he saves the page of his book with one thumb, picks his mug up with the other hand and leaves the kitchen. Dean heads straight for the refrigerator. Castiel hears the familiar clink of glass. His connection with Crowley is quiet, still. Crowley is, he realises, also 'giving them space'. He takes the open bottle of beer Dean offers him. Dean sinks onto a stool with a tired sigh, and nods to the one opposite. "Sit down, man. What the Hell's goin' on with you?"  
Castiel sits. Tries to slouch a little, to match Dean's posture. "This is what's going on with me. Is it really so hard for you to accept it?"  
"Yes it's so hard for me to accept! You- you're..." Dean pinches the bridge of his nose. Takes a long swallow of beer and tries again. "You're an angel. Crowley's a demon. For starters. And," he raises the bottle in his hand as Castiel opens his mouth to speak. "Lemme finish. I know it's probably not unheard of. Hell, Sam had his thing with Ruby... What I'm saying is, look how _that_ panned out. It's _Crowley_ man. You can't trust him. And - god - since when are you even gay?"  
Castiel considers this outburst carefully. There is a lot to address, and he isn't quite sure where to start. He watches Dean take another mouthful of beer, the way his throat works when he swallows. "Does it help you to think of me in those terms?" Dean seems perplexed by the question. "Gay," Castiel clarifies.  
Dean splutters around the neck of his beer bottle. Shakes his head. "Listen, Cas, dude." His voice lowers. "You're my best friend, man. I don't care if you're gay, straight, or into rubber duckies. So long as you're happy, yknow? And... and Crowley ain't the kind of guy who makes people happy. Do you understand what I'm saying? How'd this even start, this... thing you got going on?"  
Castiel is well practiced at dismissing the irritation that comes with Dean's inability to understand that his gender is not so simple as his vessel's. That angels do not share the same binary understanding of gender and sexuality most humans have. "When were we first physically intimate?" he queries, wanting to be precise. "Or when did our relationship in its current form begin?"  
Dean's expression crumples in dismay. "Jeez, Cas... spare me the details. Just - when did you two go from wanting to gank one another to holding hands at the movies?"  
That one is easier to answer. "After he saved my life," Castiel replies, simply.  
"So you..." Dean frowns. Says, softly, "Cas, you don't _owe_ him."  
The suggestion that he would do this out of a misplaced sense of debt is offensive, Castiel finds. "I'm aware," he says, rather more snappily than usual. "Before then, there was often affection and..." _lust_ "desire between us. But I believe that marked the point at which I realised how much I trust him." Crowley's one request in return for saving Castiel's life. That he visit Crowley's safe house, spend time there. Recover. And it had felt good to know he was more than a weapon to be used and then set aside, to at least one person.  
"You know he's a demon, Cas." Dean says it gently, as if he's talking to a child. "Hell, I know myself that he can be... fun. Good company. He can make you forget... what he is. I'm sorry, man. You just can't trust a demon. I should know." He frowns, fingernails picking at the label of his beer bottle. "I've been one."  
There's a world of emotion in those gruff words. Castiel feels himself unqualified to address it, hopelessly out of his depth. But Dean is important, Dean is _his_ \- he has been, in some way, ever since Castiel dragged him from Hell. And so he must try. "What is a demon, Dean?"  
There's a quiet clunk as Dean sets his bottle carefully down on the countertop, scrubs a palm down his face. He's still the same man Castiel pulled from torment, but so much has changed. For better and for worse. "They look like us. Act like us, even. Until you scratch the surface, then underneath there's just... nothing. They're us, Cas, but drained of every little thing that makes us human. Compassion, empathy - sure, they can fake it just swell, if it gets ‘em what they want. But look inside them, really look inside, and all there is, is a void."  
He wants to comfort Dean, but has no idea how. He's never been taught how, never been shown. "I've seen inside Crowley," he says. _I've been inside Crowley._ "He's not human. But there's more to him than emptiness."  
Dean huffs a quiet laugh. Bitter, perhaps. Castiel can only guess at what he is feeling. "Your demon's different than all of the other demons, am I right?" He pulls a face. Mutters, " _Your demon_ ". When he looks Castiel in the eye once more, his expression is impossible to read. "You know you can't change him, don't you?"  
"I don't want to change him." It's clear Dean doesn't believe him about Crowley. Castiel wishes there was some way he could _show_ him. "Do you think Crowley is the same as all the other demons you've known?"  
"Oh, heck no." It's clear in his tone: _he's worse._ "Cas... What are you saying to me here?" He gives a weak laugh. "What, you're in love with the guy? Or is this just some freaky friends with benefits deal?"  
Castiel takes a drink of his beer. The taste is mildly unpleasant, but it reminds him of Dean and he swallows it down. He considers the question. It's difficult to answer - he struggles to apply such human labels and concepts to his feelings for Crowley. "Is it important to you that I define it?"  
A heavy sigh. "No. I guess it makes no difference. Even if you did, doubt I'd understand any more'n I do now. Just tell me one thing, man. What we saw, just now, in the map room. He's not... He doesn't hurt you does he? 'Cause you know, that is not OK."  
Castiel is tempted to laugh. He sends the shiver of amusement to Crowley instead, lets it tickle him. "It's not me you need to be concerned for. Trust me."  
"Oh God... No, I don't wanna know." It's almost amusing too, how aghast Dean looks at the implication. It's suddenly as if he doesn't quite know what to do with his hands.  
Across their link, Castiel feels an answering tug from Crowley, curious and hopeful.  
Dean does want to know. The desire for it is rolling off him in waves - curiosity, lust. Castiel isn't sure if Dean is even aware of it. "I apologise for what happened earlier. Crowley was... unhappy that our conversation was interrupted by your summons. I'm sorry it worried you."  
"See, this is what I'm talkin' about." Dean's gaze sidles from one side of the kitchen to the other. "That's not cool. Humiliating someone because they skip out on you... It's not what people _do_."  
Castiel sets the glass beer bottle on the counter. "We're not people," he says. "Not in the sense you mean. And I don't feel humiliated."  
"Well, it was a dick move all the same." Dean is, predictably, flustered. Strangely defensive. "You know he probably did it just to make me an' Sam lose our lunches."  
He can barely meet Castiel's eyes. Castiel frowns. "Does the thought of it offend you so much? I assure you he didn't hurt me. Although I understand that pleasure of this sort is usually a private matter for your species."  
"Damn right it's a private matter. What else has he got you doin'? Wait - no, don't answer that." Dean sighs, again. "Cas, man... are you happy?"  
"Yes, Dean," Castiel replies, without hesitation. "And I believe that Crowley is, too." Not that Dean seems too concerned about that.  
He looks about to say something, but bites his lip. "Then that's gonna have to do. But I'll tell him in person when I see him next - he does wrong by you, I'll smoke his ass myself."  
A dozen replies offer themselves. _You mean you'll try,_ for instance. Or to point out that by some ways of reckoning, Dean has done Castiel far more wrong than Crowley ever has. To mention that Castiel is an angel of the lord, mighty and powerful, certainly more able to defend himself than a mere human - no matter how competent or plucky. He might say that Crowley is the one in need of protection, that Castiel has already scarred him in secret, hidden places, made him cry out in agony. That he'll do it again.  
"Thank you, Dean," he says, instead, and reaches once again to touch him. To clasp his wrist in the vessel's hand and hold it for a moment. A reassurance.  
Dean nods, brusque as ever. Claps a hand across Castiel's shoulder. "You gonna stay a while? It's pizza Wednesday?"  
It's almost tempting. To spend time with Dean and Sam, to feel normal in their company again. But there is a demon waiting for Castiel. "Thank you for the offer, but I can't. Perhaps another time."  
"You gonna go to him?" Dean's mouth twists into a grim approximation of a smile.  
"Yes." Castiel doesn't flinch. He keeps steady eye contact, despite Dean's discomfort. "I told him I would."  
Another nod. Fatalistic. Dean says, "Don't do anything I wouldn't do."  
Castiel lets himself smile, very slightly. "I'll try." He disappears, follows the thin thread of his grace to where Crowley is waiting for him.  
  
  
"Well, you're here. That's a very good sign." Crowley doesn't get up from the couch where he's lounging. Back here, in the comforting hush of the safe house, with its sighing music of flame and rain. It seems always to rain in Scotland, Castiel thinks. "Did daddy scold you terribly for dating a bad boy?"  
Castiel makes a face. "Please don't compare Dean to my Father." He draws closer to Crowley, though. As if pulled to him.  
Setting aside his book, Crowley shuffles further upright, eyes keen on him. "Let me guess. 'He's not good enough for you, Cas. He's using you Cas. You can't trust him, he's only in it for your tight little tushy, Cas.'" His impression of Dean's accent is acerbically accurate.  
Castiel stops in front of Crowley, and runs a hand through his hair. He feels the way the demon beneath clings to his fingers, as if it can't bear to be parted from him. "He disapproves," Castiel confirms.  
"Well, duh." Crowley leans into the touch, physically and metaphysically, his eyes slipping closed. "The burning question is, do you care?"  
He's fiery warm. All smoke and ash and adoration, nuzzling into Castiel's hand as it cups the side of his face. "What do you think?" Castiel asks, and pushes two fingers into Crowley's mouth and then out again, past those sinfully sweet lips.  
Crowley groans. Leans up and chases the tips of Castiel's fingers with his tongue. "I think he's right. I'm not good enough for you." His tone is wry enough, but it's such an un-Crowley thing to say. Too modest. Too raw. His essence frills, clinging greedily.  
"Hmm," Castiel says, considering. He rubs spit-wet fingertips on Crowley's plush pink lips. "I think you can be very good for me, Crowley."  
"I can. Let me." Phantom tendrils of him are reaching out, boiling over, as he tilts his head, mouthing at Castiel's fingers.  
Castiel lets Crowley's essence cling and suck at him where it touches, like a dozen tiny mouths, while the vessel's own mouth is occupied with Castiel's fingers. He holds them on Crowley's tongue, feels the wetness of it, the heat, how easily it gives when he presses and strokes at it, exploring the soft inner walls of Crowley's mouth. Something is different with Crowley since their confrontation with the Winchester brothers. A little more vulnerable, more exposed. As if he didn't quite believe Castiel would take his side against their disapproval, even after everything. Castiel pushes some of himself out beyond his vessel's limits, through the fingers on Crowley's tongue. Fills Crowley's mouth with it, touches the sensitive place at the back of his throat and Crowley makes a quiet little sound of rapture, takes more of Castiel's vessel into his. His mouth is far too occupied to speak with his vessel's tongue, but Castiel hears, from another plane, the grating purr of the demon, _please, angel. Anything you want, just let me touch you._  
  
It thrills through him, that voice, and Castiel realises that part of the reason this comes so naturally to him is that he was created for it - to subjugate demons like Crowley, to overpower and command them. It's not what they have, not at all - when Castiel forces himself down Crowley's throat, makes him swallow and swallow around Castiel's metaphysical presence until his eyes are running with tears and he's trembling all over like a poplar tree in the wind, it's a signal of affection and desire, of Castiel's inability to confine his arousal to his own body, rather than any kind of violence. But still, it settles in Castiel's consciousness like something _right_. Something natural, far more natural to him than any human notion of sex ever has. He wants to fill Crowley up from the inside, to scour him. He realises he's murmuring soothing nonsense to the sobbing demon in Enochian, in a voice half way between human and angel.  
  
Crowley's vessel convulses beneath him. Bows up off the couch cushions in a graceful arch. Little gouts of smoke are starting to puff from its nostrils, it's mouth. Bloody red. Entwining around Castiel's fingers, climbing his wrist and insinuating beneath the cuff of his shirt. Crowley's essence: shimmering with pleasure, staying within the confines of his vessel only with effort.  
Castiel could burn Crowley from his vessel with no more than a thought. But instead he wants to keep him there, to make him feel the pressure as Castiel fills him with angel. He wants to feel the smoke writhing against him in the tight confines of Crowley's body, barely enough room for both of them to exist. He pins Crowley in the vessel, holds him down, doesn't let him escape. Lets him feel how weak he is, in Castiel's strong grip. When Castiel speaks, his voice seems to come from all directions, like thunder. "Do you like that, demon?" he says, and the word _demon_ comes out as a term of endearment. Synonymous with _darling_. With _beloved_.  
The demon whines. Thrashing. Pushing against him, testing Castiel's strength. Ineffectual. And Castiel can feel just how much Crowley likes that: the arousal is rolling off him, thick as the smoke that sizzles against Castiel's invading grace. More: shock, pleasure, pride, contentment. " _Yes_." Crowley's voice is ruined, dark as midnight. " _Make_ me."  
Castiel can't help thinking of Dean's words. That inside a demon is nothing but void. His grace shudders with laughter at the thought - here, inside Crowley, there is hardly space to move for all that fills him. Crimson smoke, sparking with lust and fury and power. Shame and responsibility and helplessness, with love. Intelligence. Cunning. Ambition. It may be no more than embers, but Crowley's soul still glows. Castiel wants to taste it, to burn his tongue sucking at it as Crowley did his fingers. From the outside they are almost unmoving, locked together through that one point of contact. Only the smoke seeping from the edges of Crowley, and the eerie blue that glows around Castiel like an ultraviolet light, gives any indication of the storm that is building inside Crowley's vessel. Castiel holds Crowley tight. Forces him to feel every inch of grace Castiel feeds him until he's choking on it, straining at the seams of his existence. They stay like that. A single, precarious point of balance, as close as two beings can exist in the same space at once. The demon is howling - a high, whistling squeal: jubilant, agonised. Crowley's vessel shakes, eyes leaking. A breath away from breaking.  
The fluttering of Crowley's throat is exquisite. Castiel can barely stand it. He holds Crowley's mouth open with the vessel's fingers and thrusts himself back and forth in that throat just to feel it contract and spasm against his grace. Each time he sinks himself into the demon, Crowley cries out. "Be still," Castiel rumbles. "Be good. Let me... let me."  
  
His response is an incoherent moan. Lustful, greedy. Desperate. Crowley's throat convulses around him; his essence pulses, pushing against the grace that penetrates it. Taking what he's given, obedient and as close to docile as Castiel has ever seen him. It's so hot inside Crowley. Sleek and welcoming, impossibly small. Castiel is only giving him a tiny part of himself, and it already feels as if no more of him will fit. Castiel's true body is immense, many times bigger than the room they're in. He's used to forcing it into too-tight places, keeping it bound up. _Abomination_ , he sighs, fondly, full of some un-nameable emotion, and his vessel's other hand comes up to pet Crowley's hair as he holds himself deep inside him. "Stay just like this. Let me feel you."  
The demon stills, beneath him. Only the undulation of smoke, the fast moist tick of the vessel's snug insides. Crowley's eyes are wide, wet and glassy. He holds Castiel motionless inside himself, radiating calm, contentment, security, full as a held breath. "Perfect," Castiel tells him, and feels Crowley's pleasure at the praise. He wipes tears away from under Crowley's eyes, and instantly more well and fall in their place. Crowley seems unable to tear his gaze away; they stare at each other. "I could stay inside you for hours," Castiel tells him. "Years. I could keep you like this for a lifetime." The wet clench of Crowley swallowing around him, the adoration in his eyes. The demon inside clings. A litany of wordless _yes, YES_. A devil of the pit, at peace. Castiel lets him cling, even allows them to mingle at the edges, to swirl into each other like paint. It both is and isn't sexual. Castiel’s vessel is not erect, but it is pleasurable to be within Crowley, to feel him from the inside, to move in him.  
So he remains there, and time passes. He's barely aware of how much time - only that the sky outside grows dark and then light again before he finally withdraws and Crowley slumps to the floor.  
  
His vessel is still as death, the demon inside almost so as well. Although the sensations Castiel is aware of emanating from Crowley's true self are less grave than transcendental, calm to the point of stupor. Castiel kneels next to the body sprawled beneath him on the polished wooden boards. Traces the silky arch of one eyebrow with his thumb. Crowley's eyelashes flutter. He exhales a sigh. "Treasure," Castiel calls him, ever so quietly. "Beautiful demon. You belong to me."  
Crowley moves, slightly, softly. Pushes into Castiel's comforting touch. It feels like acquiescence.


End file.
